


Finding Our Way Back Again

by Blink_Blue



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Character Study, Confessions, Hiatus fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, S3 Winter Hiatus, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-02 10:52:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8664844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blink_Blue/pseuds/Blink_Blue
Summary: Connor has too many secrets that aren't his to tell. It's what drove them apart. In the aftermath of Wes's death, it becomes apparent that Oliver won't stay in the dark much longer. Oliver's about to find out the truth is much worse than he could have anticipated. And though Connor doesn't make it easy for him, Oliver is determined to get his answers.





	1. Chapter 1

****Oliver glances up wearily at the pitter patter of a nurse’s footsteps as she walks around the reception area doing her rounds. With her clipboard held loosely in her arms, she looks almost as tired as he feels. Almost. The clock on the wall tells him it’s a quarter ‘til four in the morning.

Oliver sighs softly, feeling the ache and exhaustion deep in his bones. For hours now they sat in shock, silent and still in their uncomfortable waiting area chairs, just... sitting and waiting. They’ve been waiting so long, Oliver’s not even sure what they’re waiting on anymore. Was it news on Laurel’s condition? Was it word from Bonnie about Annalise? Were they waiting to hear from an officer about Wes?

Wes.

He still can’t believe it. It hasn’t quite sunk in that Wes is really gone. A small part of him thinks it might all be some horrible nightmare he’ll wake from at any moment. And he’ll find himself lying awake in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, willing to drag his body up for work. But that’s not going to happen. Because this is real, and Wes is gone.

Oliver didn’t exactly know him well, but they hung out a few times and he was always such a nice guy. And now he’s gone, taken by a fire, which… seems like too cruel a death for someone so good. It must be worse for everyone else though, Oliver can certainly acknowledge that. The others knew Wes better than he ever did.

Oliver looks to his right at Michaela, who sits with dried tear tracks running down her face. She looks devastatingly exhausted, and Asher looks no better. They sit side by side, seeking comfort in each other, hands intertwined and bodies close. It’s nice that they have each other, but the sight of it draws attention to his own ache for a comforting presence.  

Hesitantly, Oliver turns his head to glance at Connor. The other man stares blankly at the ground in front of him. Connor hasn’t moved or spoken in the past two hours. Oliver attributes it to shock, and he gets it--hell he feels it too. This crazy roller coaster of a night has left him drained--emotionally and physically. And as terrible as it sounds, Oliver wants nothing more than to just go home, crawl into his bed, close his eyes, and forget tonight ever happened. But the thought that Wes will never get to go home again is another painful reminder of the tragedy that occurred tonight.

Oliver’s gaze drops to Connor’s hands resting in his lap. It’d be so easy to reach out for them. And he desperately wants to. But would that be appropriate? Moments after Bonnie told them it was Wes, he had reached out for Connor. He’d pulled him into his arms, held him close, and they finally broke down together. But now, hours later, the tears have dried, the sobs have ended, and they sit side by side, a foot of space between them. It might as well be miles.

He thinks back to the past few hours. The shock at seeing the flames consuming Annalise’s house, the fear he felt knowing that someone was dead--likely someone he knew. The terrifying, heart-stopping dread that Connor had died was like ice in his veins. He had been so scared… he was so sure Connor was gone, and whatever they had, whatever was left to salvage, whatever _hope_ he was still clinging on to… it all went up in smoke along with Annalise’s house.

Oliver draws a shaky breath as he continues to watch Connor’s hands. Now, more than ever, he wishes he could reach out to him...

The shrill chime of a ringtone interrupts his thoughts. Relief floods Oliver, the sound is a welcome reprieve from the awful silence of the room. Michaela starts, and with a jerk she drops Asher’s hand and reaches into her bag for her phone.

“Hey mom,” Michaela says softly. She nods her head gently, tiredly closing her eyes. “Yeah… yeah, I’ll be home soon... Bye.” Her hands shake as she hangs up the phone, but makes no moves otherwise. Her lips tremble as she settles her hands in her lap. Oliver’s afraid she might burst into tears again.

“Come on,” Asher murmurs to her, his voice cracking from disuse. “I’m taking you home.” He holds out his hand which Michaela gratefully takes, and together they stand to their feet.

Oliver watches them silently before turning to Connor. “What are you going to do?” He whispers, knowing that Michaela’s couch is currently occupied.

Connor’s shrug is timid and small, barely noticeable. “I don’t know,” he murmurs under his breath.

“You’re coming home with me,” Oliver says. He feels Michaela’s and Asher’s eyes on him as Connor lifts his head wearily. “It’s fine,” he says gently. “You can take my couch.”

Connor slowly nods and they climb to their feet. There’s nothing left for them to do at the hospital. There will be no news for them tonight. The best they can hope for is a few hours of sleep. And maybe things might not look so bleak in the morning.

The four of them are silent as they walk out of the hospital, all of them trying not to think about Wes’s cold body lying in a morgue, or Laurel injured, lying in a hospital bed.

“Did you drive here?” Oliver asks in the parking lot after they had parted ways with Michaela and Asher.

Connor nods as he looks around the dark lot blankly. “Yeah, I uh… I parked… somewhere around here--”

“I’ll give you a ride,” Oliver offers. “My car’s right over here,” he says, pointing in the direction. “I don’t think you should be driving right now,” he murmurs as an afterthought.

Connor offers no resistance and simply nods as he follows Oliver to his car.

As Oliver climbs into his car, he almost flinches from the awkwardness when he sees Connor getting into the passenger seat. There’s something _too_ familiar about them sitting in his car together. Too many memories associated with such a simple activity. Driving to the grocery store, picking up take-out for dinner, a date night at the movie theater… a hoard of domestic memories bombard him all at once.

Connor doesn’t seem fazed though.

The discomfort continues after he pulls out of the parking lot, and he wonders if Connor feels it too. Perhaps not, considering how the other man only stares silently out the window as Philadelphia passes them by.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Oliver asks after the silence gets to be too much. It’s starting to make his skin crawl. “I--I know you guys must have been close. I still--I still can’t believe he’s really gone. It just doesn’t seem real, you know? I can’t imagine what it must be like for you--” He’s rambling and he knows it. Some combination of a lack of sleep and being completely _emotionally_ drained, but the words keep spilling from his lips and he just can’t seem to stop. “I’m so sorry, Wes was more than just your classmate or your colleague, he was your _friend--_ and with everything that happened tonight--Annalise is in jail?? I can’t even begin to--”

“We weren’t that close.”

At first Oliver is more shocked to hear Connor speak than from the actual words he said--but then they finally register to his sleep deprived brain. “You… weren’t that close?” Out the corner of his eye he sees Connor shrug nonchalantly. “Wh-what do you mean you weren’t that close?” Oliver sputters helplessly. “You worked together for the better part of a year! You hung out all the time! I saw you guys in class together--what do you mean you weren’t that close?”

Connor doesn’t bother responding this time. He simply continues watching the lights pass by as he leans his head against the cool glass of the window.

_Not that close?_

It must be the shock and the loss speaking. Oliver swallows uncomfortably as he focuses on the road in front of him. Connor’s clearly in no condition to talk, so this conversation will have to wait--and it’s one of many that Oliver’s dying to have with Connor.

Wes’s death wasn’t the first shocking revelation of the night, not by far. As if Annalise arrested for murder and arson wasn’t enough... He found out that Connor was lying about his drug problem for the entirety of their relationship? That one was a punch to the gut. Not to mention his possible involvement in the death of Sam Keating. That one’s just his own speculation, of course. But the pieces fit together so well, Oliver’s kicking himself for not seeing it earlier. He looks back on his day with too many damn questions, and unfortunately, the man next to him doesn’t look up to providing him with any answers. Oliver vows to get them out of him sooner or later.

When they arrive at Oliver’s apartment, it’s a little past four in the morning. Oliver pauses after turning off the engine, but Connor doesn’t bother waiting for him and simply exits the car wordlessly. He looks up at the building before him. Surely, they’re both thinking about the last time Connor was in Oliver’s apartment--the fight they had, and the words they exchanged…

_“You’ve never been totally honest with me.”_

_“Because this is_ **_bigger_ ** _than me!”_

Oliver swallows the lump in his throat as he leads the way into the building. He didn’t think he’d find Connor back here again so soon--or possibly ever again really, as much as the thought pained him. But then again, there were a lot of things he wasn’t expecting before today.

Silently, they walk up two flights of stairs and Oliver opens the door to apartment 303. Everything looks the same as he’d left it. And it’s a strange feeling, coming home to everything looking the same, all the while knowing that everything had changed forever.

Connor listlessly heads towards the the living room, removes his jacket, and drops down heavily onto the sofa.  

Oliver gnaws on his bottom lip as he watches the other man’s sluggish motions--he wants to say something, he _needs_ to. But he’s not sure if he should--

_“Maybe it’s because you’re afraid that I’ll really know who you are, and not like him.”_

_“You_ **_do_ ** _know me!”_

“Do you need anything?” Oliver asks suddenly. Then he mentally berates himself, wondering why he’s so desperately trying to come off as hospitable. What’s the point? It’s not like he should be offering the man a drink at this hour, or that Connor doesn’t know where the bathroom is if he needs it. The ambiance is just too uncomfortable for him to stay silent.

Connor doesn’t answer with words. But he gives him a look like he wants nothing more than to just go to sleep and call it a night.

“No. No, of course not,” Oliver murmurs. “You must be as exhausted as I am. Maybe--maybe tomorrow, once everything’s...” His voice trails off… _Settled?_ Better? What exactly had he meant to say? Nothing’s going to get better. A few hours isn’t going to make a difference when _Wes is dead_. “Maybe we can talk then,” he finally chokes out.

Connor draws a heavy breath but still doesn’t say a word. And maybe his silence bothers Oliver more than it should. Why doesn't he _say_ something? _Anything?!_ Oliver knows it’s not his place to tell others how to grieve, but Wes’s death deserves a _little_ more than what it’s gotten out of Connor.

Connor knows what happened to Sam Keating--Oliver is nearly sure of it. Connor might have… he might have had something to do with it. The very thought terrifies him. That Connor could possibly have been involved in Annalise’s husband’s death. _It terrifies him._ And it makes him wonder… how well does he _really_ know Connor? Not as well as he’d thought, considering the man isn’t a recovering drug addict as he had been led to believe. How many other secrets had Connor been keeping from him this whole time?

“Do you think it was an accident?”

Connor’s head snaps up, and his tired, exhausted face betrays every fear that he’s hiding. The sincerity of it makes Oliver’s blood run cold. He asked for the truth, repeatedly begged for it, and for the better part of a year wanted nothing greater than to be a part of Annalise’s inner circle… to be seen as helpful and _useful_ to this woman. Now the idea that Wes’s death could involve foul play… and with Annalise arrested for murder… what kind of mess had he gotten himself into?

Oliver shakily drops into the armchair as he absorbs Connor’s silent response that says all too much.

Everything had changed so suddenly. It’s absurd to think just earlier that day, they had been celebrating with a room full of students about the success of their midterm grades. Now it all seems like a lifetime ago.

“What do you think’s going to happen--” Oliver croaks.

“We’re not talking about this,” Connor’s ragged voice cuts him off. He shakes his head and drops it tiredly, running a hand through his messy, unwashed hair. “Not now.” _Maybe not ever._ God knows Connor can be as stubborn as they come.

“Right. Sorry,” Oliver mutters, shaking his head quickly. The clock on the television reads half past hour in the morning. “Now’s a terrible time, I know. I wasn’t thinking--”

“I just want to sleep, Oliver.” Connor says tiredly, his exhaustion clear in his voice.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Oliver nods and gets to his feet. Connor’s weary eyes follow him as he stands. “Look, I--I know I said you could sleep on the couch… and, of course it’s yours if you want it. But uh… if--if you wanted to... you could sleep in the bed tonight. I mean... with me,” Oliver adds quickly. “I… I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

Connor watches him silently for a moment, expression unreadable. He doesn’t move from his spot on the couch. “I think I’m good here,” he eventually says.

Oliver swallows and tears his eyes away for a second before turning back to him. “Connor...” Oliver whispers softly. “Look, I know--I know we’re not okay… but after what happened tonight… I--I thought I lost you, okay? I thought--” His voice cracks awfully and he’s just so tired. _So_ goddamn tired… and the one constant he can rely on is Connor. He wants to hold him, and fall asleep next to him, in _their_ bed, and it’ll be the one good thing that hasn’t gone up in smoke tonight. “I was so scared, Connor.” Oliver whispers. “So please...just--”

“I fucked Thomas.”

Oliver blinks. He must have misheard. But no… _Thomas?_   _Not the same Thomas who made him feel less than because of his disease?_ Icy sharp pain fills his stomach and his lungs, making it hard to breathe. “What?” He asks hoarsely, even as his heart wedges itself firmly in his throat. “What did you say?”

“I fucked Thomas tonight,” Connor repeats, not meeting his eyes--either uncaring or just simply unaffected by how Oliver feels like he just got kicked in the gut. Connor takes a heavy breath. “That’s where I was when Wes was dying in a fire. While you were panicking and freaking out that I might have been dead... I was screwing Thomas.” Connor shrugs his shoulders, detached and emotionless.

“It was just sex. It wasn’t a big deal, but yeah... I did that. So…” Connor finally lifts his eyes to meet Oliver’s hurt gaze. “Are you going to kick me out?” He says it so… carelessly, like what he did wasn’t a big deal. Like he didn’t just have casual sex with the man who hurt Oliver _so_ badly. But if Oliver made him leave right now, that wouldn’t surprise him either. Connor knows it’d be a justified reaction from him.  

It makes Oliver want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. _Why don’t you care anymore?! Why aren’t you upset about Wes? Do you care that he’s dead? Why did you sleep with Thomas?? Don’t you care at all that you hurt me??_

Oliver wants to hate him for it. But he can’t. And maybe that makes him feel worse than the confession itself. He flinches under Connor’s dull, indifferent gaze. “No,” Oliver finally says softly.

Connor nods solemnly in acceptance. “Okay,” he says turning away. He rearranges a throw pillow on the couch and prepares for sleep, beginning with the removal of his shoes. “Goodnight.”

And that’s the end of their conversation.

With a pain in his chest, Oliver walks around the couch to the bedroom. He hesitates before changing out of his clothes. But a glance towards the living room tells him Connor’s already settled onto the couch for sleep. With a soft sigh, Oliver slowly removes his jacket and prepares for bed himself.

He thinks about Connor in the next room--not even a wall separating them. But the distance between them now seems greater than ever.

If Oliver weren’t completely out of tears and utterly lacking the energy to do so, he thinks he might have one last cry in him tonight.

 

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

It’s shortly before eight when Connor’s eyes slide open. Groaning softly, he reaches an arm over to where his phone rests on the coffee table. Eyes wincing from the brightness, he turns off the alarm before it can blare obnoxiously throughout the apartment. A minute and a hefty groan later, Connor groggily pulls himself up into sitting position. He feels a bit like someone had stuffed cotton in his brain as he tiredly rubs his eyes with his fingers. He could use about three cups of coffee right now. Or a sedative. Either would work.

Connor stumbles to his feet and glances behind him into the bedroom. Unlike the living room, the bedroom is still dark from the closed curtains. He can see the silhouette of Oliver’s shape underneath the covers, facing away from him. Connor swallows, his morning breath tastes rancid in his mouth. He looks away.

Nothing about it feels right, being back in apartment 303. He still has some clothes in the closet. He could probably find an old toothbrush of his in the bathroom. Maybe there’s even some of his favorite coffee left in the cabinets. But the idea of going through _Oliver’s_ bedroom, looking through _Oliver’s_ stuff when he used to think of it as _their’s_ \--it doesn’t sit right with him. Lazy mornings spent in bed with arms wrapped around each other and legs lazily entangled… those are a thing of the past.

Connor bends down and starts pulling on his shoes. He doesn’t want to be here a second longer than he has to. He’s just finished lacing them up and is reaching for his bag and jacket when Oliver wakes. It’s not like he had been exceptionally noisy--Oliver must have a sixth sense for him.  

Oliver looks surprised to see him up. “What are you doing?” Oliver mumbles, still groggy from sleep as he throws the covers off himself. He had barely gotten three hours of sleep. And it shows from the bags under his eyes. Oliver walks over, stopping right when he reaches the entryway of his bedroom. “What are you doing?” He repeats again, watching Connor gather his belongings.

Connor adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder as he shrugs, still trying to clear away the haze of exhaustion. “I’m going to class,” he says lightly. “No rest for the wicked.”

Oliver stares at him as if he’d lost his mind. Maybe he has. “What--are you serious right now?”

“Yeah. Of course I am.” Connor says softly, wishing he’d been able to sneak out without the other man awakening. He’s not in the mood to argue. “It’s what I do, Ollie. I’m a student, I go to class.”

Oliver glances at the clock on the television and cringes at the hour. “I was hoping we could talk this morning,” he finally manages. There’s clearly a lot on his mind that he wants to get out. And Connor’s not eager to accommodate him.

“What is there to talk about?” Connor mutters, not meeting his eyes.

Oliver scoffs loudly. He shakes his head. It’d be a miracle if he could get Connor to open up for _once._ “Oh, I don't know, Wes is _dead_ for one thing! Your friend--the guy you apparently _weren't that close with!”_

“Yeah, I know.” Connor snaps, as if he could possibly forget. “You don’t have to remind me.”

“Apparently I do!” Oliver retorts, throwing his arms in the air. “Because you’re--you’re just going to go to class, pretending like nothing happened when _everything_ has changed!”

“I don't know what you want from me, Ollie!” Connor finally explodes. “Do you--do you want me to break down in your arms, sobbing, crying, _lamenting_ his death as if that would actually make things any better?” He takes a step back when Oliver makes a move towards him--the other man stops in his tracks. “I’ve _been_ there, okay? I’ve been there and done that, and trust me, it doesn’t help. Frankly, it’s fucking exhausting.”

“You can’t just _act_ like everything's okay,” Oliver whispers. “Or do you just do that around me?”

Connor swallows and looks away. Oliver hit the nail on the head. He’s got no ground to stand on and he knows it. _Or do you just do that around me?_ The words circle round and round in his head. He can feel all his desperate attempts to keep Oliver in the dark and all that remains of their once perfect, quiet little bubble crumble to dust right before him. “I don't know what happened to Wes,” Connor finally says through gritted teeth. “I wasn't there. So I know as much as you do, okay? All I know, is that it happened. And now he’s gone. Wes is gone. And we should all just move on.”

“Is that what you do, you just move on?” Oliver asks quietly. “That’s not right, Connor. He deserves more than that.”

Connor shakes his head sadly. “It’s all I can do.” He turns to walk towards the door, but Oliver’s not willing to let him go so easily.

“But you _have_ to know more,” the other man insists. “There’s so much crap you’re not telling me! What about Annalise? She was arrested last night! She’s sitting in a _jail cell_ right now! We have to do something”

Connor snorts derisively and stops a few feet from the front door. “Do something? What the hell do you expect us to do?” He asks, incredulous. “You know I’ve never had a good word to say about that woman, and now you want me to _do_ something?” Connor shakes his head again, fingers already reaching for the door knob.

“What does that mean?” Oliver asks desperately. “Just talk to me, Connor! I can’t--I can’t _read_ you!”

Connor cringes silently. Oh, how far they’ve fallen… But, now that he thinks about it, was there ever a time they could read each other like books? Or have they just been deluded this entire time? “What are you upset that you’re out of a job or something?” It’s an awful thing to joke about, but it’s done. And he can’t take it back, even as Oliver stares at him in shock. “You wanted to be involved, right?” Connor lifts his arms up gesturing, as if showing him something to be impressed by. “This is what it’s like. This is what it _is._ So accept it. And move on.”

Oliver won’t. Not anymore. “What happened to Sam Keating?”

Connor freezes and his face goes slack. It’s been a while since he’s heard that name, though the face still haunts him sometimes. Connor swallows hard and struggles to block out the memories. He should have known Oliver would figure it out eventually, no thanks to his tipsy talk. It was only a matter of time until Oliver put the pieces together. And then it’s all over.

“Connor, answer me,” Oliver whispers when the other man stays silent. “That night you showed up here, you were a complete mess--it was the same night he went missing--the same night he _died!_ What the hell happened? _”_

_“Oh, there’s plenty more of Sam to bag, though.”_

_“Michaela, a little_ **_help_ ** _?”_

“Connor, answer me! Don’t just block me out, okay?” Oliver takes a step closer, but Connor... with his eyes staring blankly at the ground, doesn’t even notice. “What happened that night, Connor?”

_“We are in a marathon, and you’ve hit the wall, but we have_ **_six_ ** _more miles to go.”_

“Can you talk to me, please?” Oliver whispers. He reaches out a hand for him--

“Don’t touch me,” Connor hisses.

The bite of his words is enough to have Oliver flinching back. Oliver stares at him, eyes wide and jaw dropped in shock. “What is wrong with you?” He whispers gently, unable to mask the fear in his voice.

Connor swallows. And it’s only then that he realizes he’s shaking and trembling all over. He clenches his fists, _forces_ himself to stop as he crosses his arms in front of him and takes an unsteady step back.

“You’ve always kept me in the dark, Connor.” Oliver bites his lip. So many times he had accepted Connor’s excuses. Something about keeping them _safe._ He’s not doing that anymore. “You don’t _have_ to. Whatever it is, I can handle it. I promise,” he swears softly. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

_“We have to see this through, so quit dilly-dallying, grab a trash bag, and let’s get to_ **_scooping_ ** _, shall we?”_

“What happened that night, Connor? Tell me, please--”

Connor shakes his head vehemently. This can’t happen, not right now. Not if he can stop it. “I have to go.” He glances up to meet Oliver’s desperate eyes. “I’ll see you later.”

“What?! Where are you going?!”

“Michaela’s.” Connor spins on his feet and wrenches the door open with as much force as he can muster. “I have to shower before class.”

“Connor! No! Come on, just stay! Don’t run away from me--”

Connor slams the door shut behind him, but he’s still able to hear the other man’s last cry of his name. He doesn’t bother waiting around to see if Oliver will run after him. It feels like the hallway’s closing in on him as he sprints towards the staircase at the other end. And it’s not until he’s outside, taking heavy gulps of crisp morning air into his lungs that he realizes his car is still at the hospital.

“Fuck,” Connor curses under his breath. He groans as he pulls his phone out of his pocket to call for an Uber. It takes less than three minutes for a silver Honda to pull up to the sidewalk he’s sitting on. He climbs into the car with a nod to the driver and doesn’t bother with small talk. Not when thoughts of Wes and Sam and _Oliver_ are plaguing his mind.

Wes.

It was so easy to blame it all on Wes. To blame him for losing every good thing in his life. His grades, his security, his future, his very _persona_ that all went up in smoke the night Sam died… it was so easy to blame it all on Wes. It certainly made living with the guilt easier. Because he could reason with himself that it wasn’t _he_ who decided to break into the Keating house that night chasing after his girlfriend. _He_ wasn’t the one who brought the trophy down on Sam’s skull, splattering his blood all over the hardwood floor. Burning the body, chopping it to pieces, throwing it away like they were throwing their lives away, it was all _Wes’s_ idea. And for a long while, blaming him made everything easier to deal with.

Now Wes is gone.

Connor gasps softly and takes a shuddering breath when he realizes he’d been clutching his phone in his fist. He loosens his grip before he can crack the screen and forces his eyes shut, blocking out the light, the sounds, the damn music coming from the radio--but he can’t block out the guilt. And the _fear._ It’s overwhelming.

_“Everything that has happened to us in this house is_ **_your_ ** _fault!”_

Connor blinks through the tears in his eyes. He can’t break down in a fucking Uber. He sees the driver glancing at him through the rearview mirror. He probably looks like a fucking drug addict with his messy, rumpled clothes, unwashed hair, and heavy bags under his eyes. He almost lets out a snort at the thought. Almost.

After everything that had happened… Sam, then Sinclair and the Hapstalls, it seems so obvious now that they should have been on the same team. Instead of treating Wes like one of _‘them’_ , like the enemy, the bad guy… it’s so obvious now that they were on the same side. They just wanted to live their lives. Wes didn’t want any of this any more than he did. He just wanted to be safe... and live a normal, happy life.

And now he’s dead.

There’s no one left to blame but himself.

The car stops. Connor looks out the window to see Michaela’s apartment building. He mutters a soft ‘thank you’ at the driver before stumbling out of the car. He enters the building and makes his way to Michaela’s door. Typically without a doubt Michaela would be up at this hour, but after the night they had… he hopes he’s not waking her up.

He knocks lightly on Michaela’s door, and can’t quite explain the relief that spreads through him when Trishelle opens it, a warm smile on her face despite her drowsy eyes.

“Hey, momma Pratt,” Connor says hoarsely.

Trishelle looks at him with sad eyes. “Sweetie, you look absolutely ragged.” She grabs him gently by the arm and pulls him inside. He offers no resistance as she drags him over the the sofa. “Come on in and sit down. My girl hasn’t gotten up yet,” she says softly, glancing towards the closed bedroom door. “It was just a few hours ago that she and her boy came home. You must be exhausted.”

Connor nods and lets Michaela’s mother wrap a warm blanket around his shoulders. He tugs it close around himself.

“How are you doing sweetie?”

“Awful,” Connor answers honestly.

“Were you close to that boy?” Trishelle asks curiously. “The one who died.”

Connor shrugs awkwardly and grimaces at the question. “Kind of,” he mutters. “I mean, yeah, I guess I was. But… I wasn’t very nice to him,” he whispers. Connor looks over and sees Trishelle’s face soften, the pity in her eyes is clear as day.

“Aww sweetie,” she says softly as she grabs his hand with her own. “I bet that’s eatin’ you up inside, isn’t it?”

Connor swallows. Is that why he can’t stop thinking about it? Is it guilt that eating him up? “I hated him,” Connor whispers the words like someone else might overhear them. “I blamed him for a lot of things that weren’t his fault.” He shakes his head sadly as fresh tears prick his eyes. “None of it was his fault.”

Trishelle wraps an arm around his shoulders--a comforting, motherly presence at the very least--and Connor leans closer. He thinks about Oliver alone in their--his--apartment. Abandoned after Connor ran out the door. And Connor wonders why Oliver is the hardest person to be honest with. Why is it so much easier to tell his secrets and feelings to a virtual stranger, than the man he claims to love?

No wonder Oliver deemed their relationship so completely fucked up. And he was right.

Moments later, the bedroom door creaks open and Michaela softly pads out. She doesn’t look surprised to see Connor on the couch with her mother. “Hey, you’re here,” she says quietly. “I wasn’t expecting you so early.”

Connor nods but can’t muster up the strength to say anything else.

“Where’s Asher, honey?” Trishelle asks her daughter as she rubs a comforting hand on Connor’s knee.

“He’s just getting out of the shower now,” Michaela responds, glancing back into her bedroom.

“Oh, I call next shower,” Trishelle exclaims. “Though you kind of smell like you need one too,” she says, giving Connor a nudge and a smile. “You’ll have to wait your turn though. I’m gonna get ready,” she says, as she stands to her feet. “Maybe I’ll catch a glance of tushie.” She winks at Connor, who can’t help but give her a small grin in response, and she walks past her daughter into the bedroom.

Michaela exhales softly and gently closes the door behind her mother. She walks over to the couch and slowly drops down next to Connor, who offers half the blanket which she graciously wraps around her shoulders.

“How are you?” Connor asks softly.

“How do you think?”

Connor nods and drops his head. “Sounds about right.”

“I barely got any sleep last night.” Michaela’s voice cracks horribly and she blinks, dropping her head back to the sofa. She had thought she’d be long out of tears by now.

Connor doesn’t look at her, giving her the pretense of dignity. She doesn’t want anyone to see her cry. But he reaches over and takes her hand, and Michaela squeezes his in return.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Michaela whispers. “It just doesn’t feel real.”

“You’d think we’d be used to it by now,” Connor replies dryly.

“This is different, Connor,” Michaela hisses under her breath as she hurriedly wipes a stray tear away. “This is one of _us.”_ And she’s right. They’ve never suffered tragedy like this before. Not like this. Wes is dead. Laurel is in the hospital. And Annalise… the one woman who they trusted to protect them, is sitting in a jail cell. Who’s going to protect them now?

Connor sighs softly and closes his eyes, trying to block out images of Wes that bombard him. “At least you have Asher,” he finally says softly.

Michaela eventually turns to him. “Did you and Oliver…” her voice trails off softly.

“I slept on the couch,” Connor says hollowly. Michaela doesn’t need to ask, but the question hangs in the air anyway. “I just can’t right now…” Connor says softly, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

“What are we supposed to do, Connor?”

“What do you mean?”

Michaela throws a quick glance to the closed bedroom door before leaning in close. “You know this wasn’t an accident,” she whispers. “Nothing’s _ever_ an accident.”

“What are you saying?” Connor asks slowly.

“You know what I’m saying,” Michaela whispers.

The bedroom door opens before Connor has a chance to respond and they both let out a sigh of relief when it’s Asher walking out of the bedroom, his hair still dripping wet. “Hey man,” Asher greets. Despite the circumstances, Asher still musters a small grin at the sight of him. “Any news?”

Connor shakes his head. “No, I haven’t heard from anyone.”

“Bonnie?” Asher asks, as if it weren’t obvious.

“Radio silence,” Connor says shortly as he takes his phone out of his pocket to go through his messages. “Haven’t heard from her. Though I guess it’s a bit early to say she won’t be telling us we’re next.”

“Connor,” Michaela hisses angrily at him.

“Sorry,” Connor mutters. It was an awful joke to make. There was no humor in it anyway. “We did get an email from the president though. The whole school got it. By now, everyone knows Wes Gibbins passed away tragically last night.”

“Were there any details?” Michaela leans close to read the email on Connor’s phone. But there were none.

“Nope. Just your generic student passed away email. Condolences and all.”

Michaela sighs heavily and looks away.

“There are rumors spreading on Reddit though,” Connor stares at the cell phone in his hand, thumb scrolling through the app. “People saying a professor killed her student. Burnt her own house down to do it, or cover it up or something.” Connor scoffs as he reads speculative thread after thread, each one more ridiculous than the last. “Class should be fun today.”

“What?” Asher stares at him like he’s grown another head and steps closer to the couch. “Class? Are you serious, dude?

“What?” Connor glances up with a frown.

“You’re actually thinking about going to class?”

Connor looks to Michaela for support and finds her staring lost at the floor. “What _else_ are we supposed to do?”

Asher shakes his head as he drops onto the arm of the couch. “I can’t--I can’t sit through classes and lectures today like… like everything’s normal… What’s the point?” He rubs his face tiredly, wishing that shower had done a better job of clearing his head. “I could use a fucking drink right now.”

“I second that,” Michaela mutters flatly. “Everything’s a mess right now, Connor. I can’t--I can’t do this anymore. It’s too much.”

“I know,” Connor murmurs. “Believe me, I know.”

“So how are we supposed to just go to class acting like nothing is wrong?”

“No one said that.” Connor glances down at his phone for the time. It’s nearly nine o’clock. “We missed Constitutional Law. Give me ten minutes to shower and we can still make Civil Procedure.”

“Why the hell should we bother?” Michaela asks, shaking her head.

“Because in the time that I’ve known you, as long as your legs are functioning, I’ve never known you to skip a class before--”

“Wes is _dead,”_ Michaela exclaims, her voice near hysterical. “Laurel is in the hospital in god knows what condition! Annalise is in _jail._ It’s over. It’ll all come out now, and then _everything_ is over. Our careers, our future--we’re all going down after this.”

“Or… or maybe nothing has really changed at all,” Connor says softly. “We’ll get a passing credit for Annalise’s class… and we move on.”

Asher stares at him. “I appreciate your positivity. But that’s fucked up, dude.”

Michaela huffs in agreement.

“Yeah, I know,” Connor mutters. “But that’s just how thing’s are, right? That’s how it’s always been. Bad things happen, and we just move on. And for once, none of _us_ are involved, right?”

“We’re involved with these people,” Michaela says through gritted teeth. “We are _involved.”_

Connor drops his head back heavily, hating how he knows Michaela is right. “I’m so sick of this,” he murmurs. It’s like a freaking cult. Impossible to escape from.

“You’re preachin’ to the choir.”

“Hey, what about Oliver?” Asher asks suddenly.

Connor turns his head to glance at Asher. “What about him? He doesn’t know anything.” _Except about Sam… He knows something about Sam..._

“Are you sure?”

Connor sighs heavily and rubs his hand over his face, wishing he’d gotten more than three hours of sleep. “I don’t know. Maybe he suspects something--”

“But you don’t think he’s going to find out? About… about everything we’ve done?”

“Why do you think I’m here and not with him?” Connor says shortly. “I’ve tried keeping him out of it. If he finds out now…” Connor shakes his head softly. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

They’re quiet for a while after that, as they sit on Michaela’s red couch, listening to the sounds of running water from the next room. Each of them begging silently for a distraction from their thoughts. Connor’s eyes are heavy, and he’d kill for a few more hours of sleep. But even if Michaela’s couch were available, he knows it wouldn’t be a peaceful slumber. He doesn’t need nightmares of Sam, Sinclair, and _Wes_ haunting him right now.

“All right. Let’s go to class,” Michaela finally says, standing to her feet.

“What?” Connor looks up confused. Asher just looks reluctant.

“We’re going to go crazy if we stay here all day. And with my mother here, being all… _motherly,_ trying to comfort me when I just don’t--” Michaela groans loudly in frustration. “Let’s just _go_. At the very least it’ll keep us occupied or… something like that.” She heads to the kitchen to make coffee and eventually Asher follows her. Connor sighs to himself and slowly hauls himself to his feet. Wishful thinking, but maybe after a shower and some caffeine, things won’t feel so fucking awful.

Turns out, it doesn’t really make a difference. No surprise there. Michaela even offers to stop by a Dunkin’ Donuts for breakfast but no one is eager to take her up on it. None of them are in the mood to eat. Civil Procedure is miserable, as expected. The numerous looks thrown their way as soon as they enter the lecture hall are impossible to ignore. The hushed whispers all blend together into a wave of voices. Connor begins to regret his suggestion of attending class that day.

The law school at Middleton isn’t exactly big. People talk, and rumors spread quickly. Their little group had always been known as the favored students of the professor whose husband was murdered a year ago. It was quite a big deal for their university. The same professor who got shot by her client, who they were _all_ working for. And now… the same professor who possibly murdered one of her own.

While Connor and Asher keep their heads down, Michaela walks with her chin held high as they make their way to their desks. She always had the thickest skin of them all. A few students approach, offering condolences about their close friends. Some of them even sound genuine. Michaela repeatedly nods and retorts a short thank you in response. Someone comes up and asks about Laurel. _What’s her condition? How is she doing at the hospital?_ Laurel’s name was never officially released, but it’s no surprise that bit of information had made its rounds as well.

The professor walking in is a nice reprieve from the hushed whispers and pestering glances. They all let out a sigh of relief. But it’s impossible to concentrate on the lecture and they spend the entirety of class staring off into space. By the end, even Michaela’s notebook--usually full of neat, immaculate outlined notes--was blank.

But the awkwardness of lecture doesn’t compare to the silence that befalls Annalise’s clinic when they step in. It’s a smaller class than their Civil Procedure lecture, more personal. All at once, the chatter stops, and every single pair of eyes is on them. Connor shuffles uncomfortably on his feet as he glances around. Why did they even bother showing up? Why did _everyone_ even bother showing up?

Oliver is there, standing by his desk, looking surprised and eager, as he always does. But that look is usually reserved for Annalise. And this time it’s different. There’s a different look in his eyes when they meet Connor’s. It’s more… reserved. It might just be Connor’s sleep deprived mind playing tricks on him, but is that a hint of fear he sees?

Michaela is the one who steps forward. “What?” She barks at the students who won’t stop _looking._

They all saw the email. Every single person in the classroom is staring at them, thinking about Wes, or their professor rotting behind bars...

“Is it true?” Simon finally asks. “Wes is dead. People are saying… people are saying Annalise did it. She got arrested last night, right? Is it true?”

Michaela purses her lips as she glares at him. “How would we know?”

“Oh, come on!” Simon insists. “You guys know everything! You’ve all been _pets_ at Annalise’s side for the past year!”

“We don’t know anything,” Asher echoes. “None of us were there, okay? We know as much as you do.”

“But Wes is really dead?” Another student asks.

“This--this is crazy!” Simon exclaims. “Did she do it? Did she kill him?”

More voices speak up. Oliver himself looks like he wants to say something as he looks around the room anxiously. Connor sees him biting his lip, probably wondering if he should control the volume of the class. Not that there’s really a point anymore… there’s no professor coming in to yell at them.

_“I heard there’s a girl in the hospital.”_

_“I heard it’s Laurel!”_

_“Do you think she’ll be prosecuted?”_

_“Murdering her own student, I didn’t think she’d be that far off her rocker.”_

_“You think those rumors about her killing her husband are true too?”_

“Maybe she is a killer.” The whole room falls silent at Michaela’s words. She’s practically radiating defiance. She shrugs as she glares around the room. “Maybe she is. It doesn’t matter.” She turns to Connor and Asher. “Class is cancelled,” she mutters, before walking out swiftly. Asher hangs around for a second, gives Connor a helpless shrug, before following Michaela out, leaving Connor behind.

Connor lets out a slow, steady breath as he looks around the room at the faces still staring at him. He tries not to linger too long on Oliver’s shocked face. Neither of them had yet to say a single word. But Connor thinks Michaela said it well enough to simply echo her sentiments.

He shrugs lazily, adjusts his bag over his shoulder, and walks briskly out of the classroom.

Connor picks up his pace in the hallway, dreading the possibility of Oliver following him out. He can’t face him right now, not so soon. He can’t face _anything_ right now. Once he’s outside is where the creeping doubt sets in. It had been easy to ignore his emotions before. Especially with things to do, places to go, classes to attend, _something_ to occupy himself with. But alone… that’s when the fear and uncertainty gets him. He sighs as he looks around campus. What is he supposed to do now?

Connor picks a direction and starts walking. Walking makes it easier. It’s mindless. Anything is better than staying still. Students bustle around him, chatting about classes, panicking about midterms and papers and deadlines. It all sounds so meaningless to him… so foreign. There was a time when he actually cared about these things. He used to be just like them. Nothing on his mind but studies and GPA. He had his eyes set on his future. He had so many plans for himself, all the unending possibilities. He hasn’t had those dreams in a very long time.

When his world got turned upside down the night Sam died, he was sure it was the end for him. Because surely, there’s no coming back from _murder._ Worst case scenario he’d be looking at prison, a criminal record at the least. But then it all seemed to turn out okay. And maybe that was even more stressful than the worse alternative. Now the stress just eats away at him on the inside. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder, the paranoia plagues him, never giving him a moment of peace. And for a short while, he thought he’d found the perfect way to escape it all.

Oliver. It was always easier with Oliver. Around him, he could pretend things like death and murders and cover ups weren’t real. The lies were real though. All the secrets and the half-truths that piled up over the course of their relationship, only ended up tearing them apart. They’ve yet to blow up in his face. But if he goes back to Oliver’s, there’s always the chance that it still might.

He pauses his steps when he reaches the edge of campus. He could keep walking. But his legs ache and his stomach is painfully empty. He still needs to pick up his car from the hospital parking lot.

A Middleton bus pull up to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Connor sighs and turns around. He’d rather walk instead. So he does. 

It’s nearly seven in the evening by the time he makes it back to Oliver’s place. The other man is waiting for him when he walks through the door.

“Hey!” Oliver looks up at him in surprise. He looks mildly happy to see Connor home at least. He’d only been waiting for him to get back since he left the clinic that afternoon. “Um, where’d you go after class?”

“I had to pick up my car,” Connor says quietly.

Oliver’s eyes swing over the glance at the time. “And… that took you four hours?”

“I walked slow,” Connor says forcing a smile.

“Okay, um… I made dinner,” Oliver says, forcing conversation even as Connor walks past him to the living room. “There’s leftovers in the fridge if you want some--”

Connor can’t help the dry chuckle that escapes his throat. It’s just like old times.

“What’s going on, Connor?” Oliver asks quietly.

Connor glances up with a tired expression of feigned ignorance on his face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Oliver grits his teeth. He’s not in the mood for Connor’s games. “Bonnie called me today.”

Connor’s head snaps up. “What?” That seemed to get his attention. “What did she want?”

“So now you’re willing to talk,” Oliver says lowly.

“What did Bonnie want?” Connor hisses. Ice cold fear seeps through his veins. Suddenly everything is _real_ again. All the things that he could ignore all day long rush back with just a few words. _Bonnie called._ “What did she ask you to _do?”_

Oliver purses his lips. His old reflexive defense _against_ Connor’s protective demeanor rears its ugly head again. He pushes those thoughts away quickly. “Nothing, she didn’t ask me to do anything.”

Connor looks skeptical so Oliver continues. “Before Wes died… Annalise came to me, and said she needed my help.”

Connor’s face darkens. Oliver swallows and looks away. “She asked me to hack the DA’s office. And Bonnie called me to ask what I’d found out.”

“And?”

Oliver hesitates. “Inconclusive,” he says shortly.

“Right,” Connor mutters, turning away.

“Are you going to tell me what happened with Annalise, or are you just going to run away again?” Oliver asks pointedly. Connor scoffs dramatically but doesn’t look up. “Would you just talk to me, _please?”_ Oliver begs. “Tell me the truth, for _once.”_

That certainly strikes a nerve. “For once?” Connor echoes angrily.

“Yeah, for once,” Oliver repeats, somehow pleased that he’d actually gotten a reaction out of the other man. “Was _anything_ that you told me during our relationship the truth? Because I’m having a hard time believing it now,” he says loudly as Connor continues to seethe silently. “You’re not a recovering drug addict. You’ve--you’ve kept secrets from me since the beginning… Is it any wonder why we didn’t work out time and time again?”

Connor bites his lip, unable to escape the truth in Oliver’s words. “Don’t you already know the truth?” He says darkly.

“What?”

“Don’t you already know?” Connor spits angrily, his own failures to keep their relationship together blaze hot all over, and he shakes from the shame. “You’re smart, haven’t you already put the pieces together yourself?”

“What--no, no I haven’t,” Oliver stutters. He looks nervous for the first time that day. “I have no idea what you’re talking about--”

“You think Annalise had something to do with Wes’s death?” Connor asks softly. “I mean, he died in her burning house--it makes sense, right?” Connor’s voice is just slightly on the wrong side of hysterical and he takes a step closer. “You’re _terrified_ that this woman that you wanted to work for so badly, had something to do with this _awful_ accident.” Oliver goes pale. _Finally,_ the ball is back in Connor’s court. “Is that what you think? You asked me about Sam this morning. Do you think Annalise had something to do with her cheating husband’s hacked up body as well? _Do you?”_

“Why don’t you tell me what _you_ think, for once!” Oliver explodes. “Instead of deflecting like you always do!”

Connor grimaces and takes a half step back. Clearly Oliver senses he’s about to bolt again. “Stop. Stop, Connor. Just--just talk to me, okay?”

“Are you afraid Annalise is a killer?” Connor whispers. He wants to get out. He wants to run out that door, away from Oliver, just _away._ To something that’s _easier_ than this. “Maybe you’re afraid I might be a killer too?”

Oliver goes chalk white.

“Is that it?” Connor says softly. “Ollie?”

“I’m terrified,” Oliver answers honestly. “I’m fucking terrified, Connor. Because you won’t talk to me. And instead, I’m coming up with all these ridiculous explanations for--”

“Maybe you don’t know me at all,” Connor interrupts. “And that’s the worst part, isn’t it?” Oliver shuffles on his feet and looks away--Connor’s onto something. “That maybe you were right. Maybe I was afraid that you wouldn’t like the person I _really_ am. Maybe that terrifies you too.”

“Connor…”

Connor scoffs harshly, backing away. “Your dumbass actually wanted to be a part of this.” He shouldn’t derive any pleasure from the hurt look on Oliver’s face--he really shouldn’t. But he chuckles again sardonically. “You actually wanted to be a part of this… and now you’re wondering what you got yourself into.”

Oliver shakes his head miserably, but doesn’t respond.

“It fucking terrifies you,” Connor murmurs. “Are you sure you really want to know?”

Oliver hesitates--he takes just a second too long to answer. And that _hurts._ Connor’s anger flashes white hot and his stomach twists itself into painful knots.

“I’m gonna find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

Oliver’s head snaps up, eyes wide in shock but Connor’s no longer listening. “Wait, what? Connor--”

Connor brushes past him, phone in hand, and for the second time that day, he runs out the door, leaving Oliver shouting his name helplessly.

 

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is rushed and unedited. I kind of lost inspiration and just wanted to post something. I'd love some comments, let me know what you guys think.

**Author's Note:**

> [x](http://winters-blue-children.tumblr.com)


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